


they are the hunters, we are the foxes

by Poe



Series: i know places [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Carer Bucky, Depressed Steve Rogers, Depression, M/M, POV Bucky Barnes, Part 1 of the 'i know places' Series, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Ideation, reuploaded
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-06-16 03:29:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15428061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poe/pseuds/Poe
Summary: Propaganda has only the agenda assigned to it. It does not feel, it does not hope, it does not love or hate. Captain America is an idea, spread across all the cultures of the world since the forties. Captain America is freedom.And Steve Rogers can barely breathe.





	they are the hunters, we are the foxes

**propaganda (noun)**

[prop- _uh_ - **gan** - _duh_ ]

  1. information, ideas, or rumors deliberately spread widely to help or harm a person, group, movement, institution, nation, etc.
  2. the deliberate spreading of such information, rumors, etc.
  3. the particular doctrines or principles propagated by an organization or movement.



 

*

 

            Captain America is _the_ symbol for American patriotism. Forged in war and swathed in stars and stripes, he stands firm against those who would harm the American Dream. He’s the ultimate propaganda weapon, born 4 th of July, a symbol of hope, freedom and prosperity.

            Propaganda has only the agenda assigned to it. It does not feel, it does not hope, it does not love or hate. Captain America is an idea, spread across all the cultures of the world since the forties. Captain America is freedom.

            And Steve Rogers can barely breathe.

 

*

 

            They find Bucky in Istanbul, holed up in a cheap motel, beaten and worn but slightly less broken than before. He’d razed a trail through Europe, Hydra bases left smouldering in his wake. But he was so, so tired, and less and less sure of what he was running from. So he waited. And the man on the bridge found him.

            Quiet words. Soft words. Bucky doesn’t remember them now. Fragile half hopeful smiles and aborted touches. The blond man with the bluest eyes held out a hand to him. And through the fuzz of fear and confusion and the animal urge to flee, Bucky found himself reaching for it.

            It felt like burning. Skin on skin and no pain. No need to flinch away, to assess the damage and pick himself up. Just the warmth of another person. It felt like fire, and he dropped his head in submission, in reverence, feeling the flames spread through his body, _his_ body, causing his heart to beat ever so slightly faster, causing his breaths to catch in his throat. And then he’s on his knees, face pressed against the man’s thigh, ugly sobs escaping, wracking their way out of him, that there is no punishment, no pain to fear, that he feels, for the first time in seventy years, safe. There is movement behind the blond man, other people, but Bucky is so tired, and the blond man rests his other hand on Bucky’s head, smoothing down matted hair and murmuring under his breath, words that don’t translate but the feeling is there, safety, _love_.

 

*

 

            The blond man becomes Steve, and Bucky becomes something of himself again. They both have walls built around themselves, Bucky’s carefully constructed through the years to protect him; Steve’s built in a flash of Times Square and Nick Fury and the twenty first century and the instant knowledge that everyone he’d ever loved was dead and dying. So Bucky holds firmer than Steve, is less ramshackle. But nobody seems to notice this. Nobody looks at Steve and sees the way his smile falls the second he thinks it’s safe to drop the act. Nobody sees the way Steve will stare into space and his eyes will go far, far away, and he’ll huddle into himself. Nobody hears the nightmares. Nobody seems to know that Steve is not okay. Nobody but Bucky.

 

*

 

            S.H.I.E.L.D. threw every psychologist, psychiatrist, shrink, therapist, everyone they had at Bucky on his return. At first he’d resisted, fought against the idea of anyone else poking around his brain. Only Steve’s gentle urging convinced him, Steve waiting outside the room, Steve being there once they got back to their floor and letting Bucky sound off about everything that had been said, correcting confusions and allowing Bucky to talk, to curse and to cry. Steve cried too, sometimes.

 

*

 

            Bucky grieved. He grieved for the lost years, for lost friends. He grieved for himself. And people seemed to understand. They gave him the freedom to do so, the freedom to be angry, to be sad, to lash out against the world.

 

*

 

            It was a long time before they told him Steve had crashed the plane intentionally. Bucky refused to believe them at first. He’d been told so many lies, what was one more? But on asking Steve, Steve had merely shrugged and admitted it, his face blank. He talked about the impact, how it had been so cold, how he’d gotten out of the pilot’s seat and lain down, and waited. It seemed to take forever, the cold seeping into him. And then he’d slept. He didn’t recall dreaming. Maybe once they’d found him, but he wasn’t sure. He said nobody had ever questioned why he’d been laying down. Why he wasn’t hunched over the controls. He hadn’t slept since he’d seen Bucky fall. He was so tired. And so he let himself sleep. He didn’t intend to wake up.

            Waking up felt like a curse.

 

*

 

            That night, Bucky put his right hand through the bathroom mirror. Steve picked out the shards and wiped it with anti-septic. They both sat silently on the bathroom floor surrounded by glass and watched as Bucky’s skin slowly knit itself back together again. The sun came up and so they remained, until Steve was called to a meeting, and had to leave. He paused in the doorway of the bathroom. Apologised. For his words. For blaming Bucky for his attempted suicide. That’s what it had been. He could have let the plane crash. He’d had time. He didn’t apologise for doing it though. And it wasn’t Bucky’s place to ask.

            After Steve had left, Bucky methodically swept up the glass, washed the blood from the floor, and took the mirror down to be replaced. Placing everything in the trash, he found himself padding through to Steve’s bedroom and curling up on the bed, drawing his knees up to his chest, and then realising that he was crying. The tears made his hair stick to his face. He let them.

 

 

*

 

            Nobody had helped Steve. Sure, he’d been given instructions on how the world worked now, but ten days out of the ice and he’d been thrown into a warzone again. People forgot how young he was, how young they both were, but Bucky had at least seen the world changing, Bucky had always been more cynical than Steve, Steve who honestly believed that good would win the day. Steve wasn’t built for war, whatever Steve had believed about himself. Steve who would spend hours drawing the neighbour’s cat, Steve who helped old ladies with their shopping even as his own lungs rattled, Steve who looked up at the world that had cursed him with so much and had still seen hope.

            Captain America may be a national hero, but Steve Rogers? Steve was Bucky’s personal hero. And he wasn’t ready to lose him.

 

*

 

            Bucky notices the repetitiveness of Steve’s days. The same chores, the same food, the same clothes, variations on the same theme. Bucky can hardly argue that he is the model of mental health and that his life is by any means more desirable, but Steve deserves better. They have the same conversations, though Bucky tries to vary them, to talk about something he’s seen on television, or a movie they might watch, but Steve seems mired in the familiarities of the past. The wall he has built, shoddy as it may be, is impenetrable. Bucky asks whether Steve still draws. Steve says no. Bucky gets art supplies delivered and finds them unopened.

            “You used to draw all the time.”

            “Everyone I drew before is either dying or dead.”

            Bucky is silent.

            “I don’t want that to happen again.”

            And so the subject is closed.

 

*

 

            Steve puts up a good front when the others are around. Even the Widow doesn’t seem to notice, nor the Falcon. To ask them for help seems sacrilege, and worse, it would be admitting there’s a problem. But Bucky hasn’t heard Steve laugh once since he got back, and it feels like his own personal sun is dying. The world seems a little darker, and Steve shines a little less. So Bucky goes to the Falcon, to Sam Wilson, and using the language he’d learnt in his own therapy sessions, he explains that he thinks Steve is depressed. That Steve could do something stupid, take unnecessary risks. That he can’t shake Steve out of it. And Sam Wilson thanks him. And it’s honest. And Bucky feels like his shoulders are a little lighter, as though a load has been lifted.

 

*

 

            Steve doesn’t talk to him for three days. On the fourth, he comes to Bucky, apologises, and breaks down. Tells him that none of this is Bucky’s fault. Tells him that Sam spoke to him and that whilst Sam can’t diagnose anything, it’s likely that Steve is suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder and depression, and Bucky wipes away the tears, because now there’s a name for it, a label, and that means there are people out there who can help Steve.

            Bucky sleeps in Steve’s bed that night, curled around the larger man with his left arm wrapped tight around Steve’s stomach. They used to do this, a long time ago, a lifetime ago. They used to do more than this. But for now, this is more than Bucky had ever expected to experience again. And so he buries his face in the downy hairs of Steve’s nape, breathing him in. He wakes when Steve cries out, calms him down, and presses a kiss to Steve’s temple as Steve holds his hand and his body trembles. And Steve lets out a broken laugh then, because they’ve done this so many times before in another life, when Steve was sick, when Bucky worried that each rattling breath could be the last. And Bucky feels the deep swelling warmth of love settling in his stomach, looking at this man who rescued him, who he must now rescue back.

 

*

 

            Steve goes to his appointments. Bucky waits outside. Their roles reverse and it is Steve who talks, curses, cries afterwards. And Bucky listens. Doesn’t placate. Doesn’t try to make it okay. Just tries to validate, and understand. And each time Steve comes back more impassioned, more alive, and Bucky sees the spark in him again, even through tears and anger.

 

*

 

            There are good days and bad days. But people are aware now. People tread more carefully around Steve, the way they did, and some still do, around Bucky. Steve is never sent on missions alone, and even then they are missions another agent could easily complete. Steve is frustrated by this, wants to do more, knows he can do more, but understands. Understands that sometimes his decision making might lead to him making the wrong choice. That if he gets hurt, others could get hurt too. And that’s what sways him. It still worries Bucky, that Steve is not looking out for himself, but if it keeps him out of the line of fire, it works.

 

*

 

            On the good days, they go out, walk around New York and take in the sights, talk about how things have changed. At some indeterminable point, Steve takes to holding loosely onto Bucky’s hand as he walks, and then, more tightly, their fingers laced. Their shoulders rub against one another’s, and Bucky feels that surge of protectiveness, and of love, and wonders if Steve remembers, if Steve still _wants_. Bucky is happy, to have his friend back, even on the bad days that are spent under duvets and under Bucky’s watchful gaze, Bucky whispering nonsense and jokes just to get them through it. He’s happy that that is enough. Doesn’t push for the days when Steve would stand on tiptoes to kiss him, would slide the suspenders from his shoulders and open his shirt as though it were a gift. And then later, when Steve was bigger, when Bucky knew he couldn’t hurt him, when they got half an hour free to themselves, and Bucky had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself screaming Steve’s name.

            What they have now is good. It’s enough.

 

*

 

            Bucky wakes up to Steve drawing him.

            “I thought you didn’t draw anymore?”

            There’s no reply, just a small smile, and the look in Steve’s eye that Bucky recognises, which says _stay still, I’m on a fiddly bit_.

 

*

 

            Steve kisses him on a cold March evening, over a game of Scrabble. Neither of them are scoring particularly highly, but it doesn’t matter, because it’s been nearly a month since a Bad Day, and Steve is smiling and laughing and drawing, and he only sees his therapist once a week now and he walks back standing taller, rather than the slightly hunched posture of before. So, Steve kisses him, chaste and careful. And then they go back to the game, though their words grow even shorter and more careless and Bucky throws away a triple word score chance because he’s thinking about Steve’s eyelashes.

 

*

 

            Steve’s wall starts to fall away, and Bucky is surprised to find that his is all but demolished as well. There are casual touches, more kisses, and there is laughter. Some days it feels like the old days, just the two of them, or if they’re both feeling strong, a mishmash of friends. Soon there are more faces in Steve’s sketchbook, and the nightmares are fewer and further between. It’s not linear, there are bad days still, but there’s a certain progress for the both of them. Bucky gets asked if he’ll join the Avengers, and Steve retches into the toilet, before confessing that he can’t stand to lose Bucky again. Bucky wipes his forehead and tells him it’ll be okay, lightning doesn’t strike twice. Steve laughs and tells them they know the god of thunder, life isn’t what it used to be and old maxims don’t cut it anymore. But they agree, Bucky deserves his choice, and his choice is to help people. So he joins the Avengers, and Steve frets but doesn’t break, and after his first mission, Bucky barely makes it through the doorway before Steve is pressing kisses to his throat, almost growling as he pushes Bucky against the wall.

 

*

 

            The public might never understand that there is a man behind the Captain America mask. In some ways, this protects Steve. He understands that people need hope. Privately, Bucky thinks hope comes in many flavours, and seeing that Captain America is as human as anyone could help more people than Steve realises. But he doesn’t push. Steve is emerging from behind the clouds and he should be allowed to feel the freedom of the good days, of love and friendship. If he chooses to talk about the bad days, and one day he will, and people will listen, then it is his choice. And Bucky will be right beside him.

 

*

 

            When Steve touches him, it doesn’t feel like burning anymore. It feels like the sun’s rays on his skin. And after so long in the cold, it’s a welcome relief. If Bucky only knew, that he was the stars in Steve’s sky, the light that guided him home.

**Author's Note:**

> Reuploaded because I do actually really like this series and I'm proud of it. 
> 
> Find me on transbucky.tumblr.com and throw prompts at me if you like, I'm trying to get back into writing. Thanks for reading. :)


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